In the world I see it’s noon but still not daylight. We’re stalking caribou through a beaver swamp, chewing on pieces of smoked salmon. We don’t know who’s president or who won the olympics or what the newest iPhone is. We’re poor, we’re hungry, but we’re free in ways other people are not. We’re 100 miles from the nearest road in the Alaskan bush. It’s -30 and we’re chopping holes through the ice on the river with a hatchet to put setlines down for Burbot and pike. A bush plane flys overhead and we take potshots at it with our cut down 12 gauge single shots. Your wearing shoes made from beaver skin and sleeping on the fur of a bear we shot last spring. We’re smoking weed out of pipes made from the leg bones of a caribou as a huge piece of moose meat roasts over an open fire. We’re constantly sore and exhausted, but feel we haven’t worked a day since we left the city. That’s how we’re supposed to live, a millennia of evolution has shaped us to be able to live like that.
